


Fire in the Blood

by the_moonmoth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Consent Issues, F/M, Masturbation, Non-Graphic Violence, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/pseuds/the_moonmoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt “After a terrible battle Sansa comes across The Hound banging a redhead. What's the little bird's reaction? ... And the Hound's?” I haven’t <i>quite</i> completely fulfilled the prompt, but I hope it suits nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire in the Blood

**Author's Note:**

> For turus1. In the end, I couldn’t resist ;) Comments feed the author :)

Sandor Clegane spied his charge across the inn’s common room the moment he descended the stairs, and scowled – she should not have come down by herself. Most of the men likely to cause trouble to a highborn lady were outside camped by the side of the kingsroad, it was true, but even though the inn was filled with high lords and knights loyal to the Queen, they were fresh from the battle and their blood would be up. Another hour and a few more drinks, and the thin veneer of honour these men attempted to paint themselves in would be cracked to pieces, and no lady with any sense would want to be amongst the hordes by herself then. He thought he’d taught Sansa Stark better than that.

Striding over, Sandor wrapped his hand around her upper arm and forced her to turn to face him.

“My lady, you shouldn’t-“ he started, and stopped again abruptly when he realised his mistake.

“ _My lady_ , is it?” the girl laughed as she turned, but she flinched like all the rest when her eyes rose from his chest to his face. Now that he was looking at her properly, he realised she was shorter than Sansa, older and fuller figured, but her hair... his fingers twitched with the desire to bury them in her auburn mane.

“My mistake,” Sandor sneered, and went to take his seat at one of the long trestle tables. Sansa appeared not long after, with the Queen and that bloody great Maid of Tarth. At her grace’s appearance, a cheer went up in the common room and Daenerys smiled and nodded her head at a few of her favourites before being seated at the top of the table. Sansa sat with her, further from Sandor than he would usually like, but he had a clear view of the room and Brienne the Blue could be relied on to repel unwanted attention. Besides, there was an unspoken agreement between Lady Stark and her sworn shield that after battle, he would ensure her safety, and then he would take care of his own needs. He was not so young as to need to satisfy the heat in his blood immediately, but burn his blood did, and he would take his satisfaction same as the other men.

None of the inn’s whores appealed, however. He was not usually picky, and the place had a full complement of wenches to suit any taste or pocket, but Sandor Clegane found his eyes returning repeatedly to the woman he had mistaken for Sansa earlier.

She was a serving wench, he saw, but that did not mean she was not also a whore. The war had made many women desperate enough to sell the only commodity they had, and instead of sympathy for their plight, as Sansa might expect from him, he instead found himself wondering if this serving girl was one such wretch, because the thought of taking her from behind with that tumble of hair falling down her naked back was already making him hard.

“What’s your name, girl?” he rasped when she came to remove the trenchers. She straightened and bobbed a curtsy.

“Fenna, m’lord.” Her eyes were a velvety brown instead of vivid blue, face heart-shaped and prettyish, but careworn. He watched as her eyes travelled tentatively up his neck and the ruined flesh of his face.

“Do my scars frighten you, Fenna?”

“That depends,” she said, raising her eyes to meet his, only a faint hint of a blush on her cheeks.

“Depends?” he asked, raising his one remaining eyebrow. Most people spluttered out a denial – though this girl clearly did not enjoy looking on his face, her honesty was refreshing.

“Aye,” she replied, raising her chin a little in defiance. “It depends on how you got them, m’lord.”

Sandor threw his head back and roared with laughter, and when he was done he gripped Fenna’s chin in his hand so that she would be forced to continue to look at him.

“If you’re thinking it was one of the Queen’s pets, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

“I weren’t thinking that, m’lord,” she said, a slight smile turning up the corners of her mouth. Sandor watched her openly, with something akin to hunger, and so he saw the moment she realised what his intentions were, the smile fading from her face.

“I am not your lord,” Sandor said, “nor a _ser_ , but I’ve plenty of coin for a wench to warm my bed tonight.”

“Aye, and how much is ‘plenty?’” Fenna asked, and though her face may have paled a little, her eyes remained steady on his. Sandor released her chin and reached for her hair instead, threading his fingers through the length of it. He brought it up to his face and inhaled, and his dick throbbed in his breeches.

Slinging an arm around her waist he pulled the wench closer until she was practically sitting in his lap. He leaned over until his lips brushed her ear, and, voice low, rasped, “As much as you want.”

Fenna shivered, then drew back to look at him once more, her expression unreadable.

“I have to finish up here first,” she said. “But I’ll come up to your room afterwards, if it please m’lord.”

It pleased him very much.

*

Sansa lay still in her bed and strained her ears. The comfort of a feather bed after weeks on the road on the long march north was divine, and she should have been making the most of it by getting a good night’s sleep. But they had fought and won an important battle today, on Dany’s mission to recapture Westeros for the Iron Throne, and Sansa knew what that meant for the nocturnal activities of the man in the room next door.

Sandor had helped her escape from the Vale. He had listened to her when she said they should go south, back to King’s Landing, and he had protected her ever since, pledging his sword to her service. She was very grateful to him, and if not always an easy companion, Sansa was comfortable with him, had come to understand how to talk to him, appreciated his strong arms and sharp steel. She even loved him, in her own way. Oh she was sure that admission would surprise many a great lord who had tried to court her since she bent the knee to Dany – The Winter Lady, the men called her. But while it was true she did not suffer wondering hands lightly, Sansa had often bent her mind to imagining what a night with her sworn shield would be like.

The problem was, while she took comfort in his strength, Sansa was worldly enough to realise that there was danger in it, too. The first time she had come across him after battle, innocently seeking to ask after his wounds, she had found him pounding mercilessly into a whore bent facedown over his sleeping pallet. The woman had not seemed to be in pain, but neither did Sandor appear to be concerned for anything over and above his own pleasure, and Sansa was certain the rough treatment would leave the woman bruised and sore in the morning.

Sansa had suffered the last bruise she ever intended to get at the hands of a man when Petyr had backhanded her just before she drove the dagger through his soft furs and velvets and softer belly: she did not want that for herself.

And yet... there was something irresistible about watching Sandor Clegane in that state. The sheen of sweat on his skin, the play of muscles as he strained towards completion, the low animal sounds of need. Watching him in such intimate moments gave Sansa a thrill of power and a roiling heat in her belly that kept her coming back. She had lost count of the number of times she had seen him thus, and tonight would simply be one more in a long line.

Sansa’s candle had near burned down when she finally heard the creak of floorboards that signalled someone coming up the corridor. Blowing out the feeble light, Sansa slid quietly from her bed and went to the thin wall that separated her room from Sandor’s. The planks were shrunken from age and something that appeared to be fire damage, and so many of them failed to meet flush. Carefully pushing the tapestries aside, Sansa squinted against the light seeping through from his room, blinking a couple of times before pressing close and peering through.

*

Sandor sat by the fire in his room nursing a cup of ale. He would have preferred wine, a nice sour red, but likewise he wanted a clear head to remember tonight. Raising the cup to his mouth with one hand, Sandor stroked himself idly through his breeches with the other, feeling the fire in his blood build. Gods, he wanted this woman more than was usual. He knew why, of course, but Sansa had never shown the slightest inclination in any man, let alone a dog like him who had once held a dagger to her throat. Most days, it was enough that she could talk and smile and laugh with him without reproach in her eyes. Not today, though. Not with an opportunity as good as this one.

A light tap on the door bought him back to the present and he called for the wench to enter. Sandor had lit candles and stoked the fire and they reflected now as streaks of brilliant red in her auburn hair.

“Come here and let me look at you,” he said, when she hovered tentatively by the door. She walked to stand by the fire and Sandor stood and circled her, stopping once behind her to untie the strip of fabric holding her hair back.

“You like my hair,” Fenna said, and it wasn’t a question. When Sandor did not answer, she turned to face him, chin held high in challenge. “Were it Lady Stark you mistook me for earlier, m’lord?”

Sandor raised his eyes reluctantly to her face. He was not accustomed to a whore desiring to speak with him. But why lie?

“Yes,” he said. “You must have some Tully bastard in your family tree for hair that colour.”

“Aye, probably,” she replied, and then, “are you in love with her?”

Seemingly of its own accord, Sandor’s hand clenched hard in her hair, pulling her head back slightly. Fenna winced from the pain and then again at the look he was giving her.

“ _What’s it to you?_ ” he growled, menacing.

“I only thought, if it were true, it might make you gentler. Men ain’t always gentle, m’lord, and I’ve a full day’s work tomorrow.”

Sandor glowered down at the woman before him. Something wasn’t right here, and it wasn’t just that she didn’t appear to be frightened of him. When it struck him he released her and sat down on the edge of the bed and laughed.

“You’re not a whore, are you?”

Bizarrely, Fenna looked offended. “Why’d you say that?”

“You’ve been here long enough for me to have stripped you bare and fucked you bloody, and you haven’t asked for your money yet.” Now the girl started to look uncertain, her mouth becoming a thin, pinched line and a muscle ticking in her jaw as she clenched it.

“My husband’s dead,” she said eventually. “Got his throat cut by broken men. They say this’ll be a long winter, and I’ve a daughter to care for, so I need the money and I don’t care how it comes. You wouldn’t be the first,” she added, though Sandor knew that even if that were true, she was not yet into the realm of having lost count.

He should send her away, he knew. Toss her a dragon and send her back to the kitchens. But Sandor Clegane had never pretended to be a good man.

“Name your price, then,” he said and pulled his tunic and chemise off over his head in one go.

Fenna stood for a moment staring at his bare chest, eyes roving over the muscles of his arms and shoulders and stomach.

“You said as much as I wanted, earlier. So I’ll take a gold dragon and you can have me as long as you like.”

“Three,” Sandor countered, “and you’ll do whatever I want.”

She frowned at him then, clearly wondering what depravity he had in mind, but the temptation must have been too great because after a moment she merely nodded. Sandor took out the money and put it on the table for her to take when she left. Then he sat back down on the bed and pulled the girl between his spread thighs.

“Kiss me,” he commanded.

*

Sansa could hardly believe the conversation she’d just overheard. Queer enough that Sandor would talk to the woman, as she had never seen him do that before, but _what_ they had spoken of was making her head spin.

Could it be true that he was in love with her? Somehow, the thought had never occurred to her. Oh, he thought her beautiful, she knew, maybe even fantasised about taking her as he did his whores, but _love_? In truth, she had not quite thought him capable. And yet, there he sat, content to kiss a woman he had earlier mistaken for Sansa when usually he would have had her face down on the bed by now.

Sansa watched as the woman, stiff and unyielding at first, unbent all at once and cupped Sandor’s face with her hands, opening her mouth to him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her tight against him, before one hand snaked back to her front and up to loosen the laces of her roughspun gown. Undone, he pushed the fabric from her shoulders until she stood bare to the waist, and Sansa watched enthralled as he took one of her breasts in hand and put his mouth to the nipple of the other. The woman gasped almost inaudibly, holding his head to her as though to stop him from moving away. Her eyes were closed and Sansa half expected Sandor to force her to look at him, but he did not seem to have noticed.

After what seemed an age of this simple kissing and touching, Sandor stood. Sansa saw him shiver ever so slightly as the woman’s hands trailed from his face down his chest as he rose to his full height, and as she brushed fingertips over his nipples and the hard planes of his chest, Sansa pressed a hand between her own legs.

“Undress me,” he rumbled, the deep rasp of his voice seeming to reverberate in Sansa’s chest, and when the woman drew her hands lower down his body, over Sandor’s strong stomach and down to the waistband of his breeches, Sansa’s fingers itched jealously.

She had to kneel to push his breeches past his calves, and when he had stepped out of them and stood before her naked, his manhood was just _there_ before her face, engorged with his desire, and Sansa urged her to touch him for the sounds he would make. She went one better and, wrapping one hand around the base of him, guided him into her mouth.

Sansa had heard of the act, of course, but she had never seen it done before. With the woman’s face curtained by her hair as she leaned forward to suckle him, Sansa had a queer moment of duality, the image in her mind’s eye and the image before her becoming indistinguishable. She licked her lips almost unconsciously, moving the hand between her legs in delicate little circles, transfixed by the scene before her.

Sandor had buried his hands in his companion’s hair and was looking down on her, watching intently as his member disappeared into her mouth. Before long he began to thrust, small jerks of his hips, almost as though he didn’t want to cause her to choke, but at the same time couldn’t help himself.

“Enough!” he finally rasped, and picked her up bodily so that she had to wrap her arms and legs around him while he carried her to the bed. He laid her down gently, but instead of sheathing himself in her as Sansa had seen him do so many times before, he bent over her body and pressed his mouth between her legs. Sansa gasped and the woman moaned, arching her body off the bed to meet his touch.

“Oh gods,” Sansa whispered, a stab of heat between her thighs and in her chest. He had slid his hands beneath her buttocks to lift her, and every now and again Sansa caught a glimpse of his tongue flicking between her lips.

In all the time Sansa had been watching him, she had _never_ seen Sandor do anything like this, something that was so obviously for his partner’s pleasure. And he was doing it because she reminded him of Sansa. Who he was in love with. Who he would touch just like that, if she went to him. The thought was enough to push her over the edge, stars exploding behind her eyelids as her climax spread through her body, making her knees weak, her skin clammy. And so she missed the moment that Sandor took his companion – when she looked again his massive body covered hers, her legs wrapped around his waist and his face buried in her neck as he thrust into her over and over. His movements were not gentle, and though possessed of a certain tenderness she had not seen him display before, he did not hold back his strength in the throes of his passion. When Sansa realised she wanted him anyway, she sank to her knees in confusion and tried to catch her breath and clear her head.

Finding another gap in the wood she watched for a few moments longer as he sat back and lifted her into his lap, pulling her hair over her shoulders so that it bracketed her breasts. Watched as he rested his forehead on her breastbone and dug his hands into the flesh of her hips to continue moving her up and down the length of him. Heard as he moaned, “little bird,” before his whole body shuddered powerfully and he finally found his peak.

And afterwards, as Sandor lay back on the bed and pulled the woman to sprawl across his broad chest, wrapping his arms around her with his mouth pressed to the crown of her head and one hand buried in her hair, then for the first time Sansa felt an intruder on Sandor’s privacy, and pushed herself away from the wall with a queer feeling in her belly.

She was at her washstand when she heard a door click and footsteps in the hallway: Sandor’s woman leaving. She had not... expected... well, he did not usually keep his whores for the night unless he passed out drunk after finding his pleasure. But it had looked as though... yet he had not...

Sansa’s heart clenched and her stomach seemed to flip over and she leant against the washstand for a moment, knuckles white on the basin as though she were drowning and the basin the life rope.

“Mother have mercy,” she whispered, then steeled herself against her nerves and reached for a heavy shawl. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she stepped out into the corridor and walked to Sandor’s room.

Heart racing, Sansa knocked on the door.


End file.
